


wreck me one more time

by wrtchedwolf



Series: as long as you love me (steve + bucky) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrtchedwolf/pseuds/wrtchedwolf
Summary: "wreck me one more timelike i ain't had enough.wreck me like a shipthrow my heart overboard.i can make peace with the seaif you wreck me."





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "wreck me one more night  
> wreck me one last time  
> wreck me like a ship  
> baby wreck me.
> 
> show me the way to my grave."

_"Bucky," Steve giggles as Bucky pulls him from the couch, body unsticking from sweaty, leathery cushions, and twirls him around in a circle. "Whadd'ya doin' there, Buck?"_

_"Dancing," Bucky points out, repeating the motion once more before pulling Steve back into him with a softness that comes from deep in his heart, echoing in his eyes. Steve's got unnaturally large hands for his small, thin stature, but they still fit perfectly into Bucky's, who's nearly a whole foot taller than him. He pulls Steve closer to him, without a single care in the world in the privacy of their own shamble of an apartment._

 

_Steve's head comes to rest on his chest and was the perfect height for Bucky to rest his chin on the top of his head, large hands swallowing Steve's hips whole. Steve's too comfortable—and too short, if he really wants to admit it—to reach up to Bucky's neck, so he settles for wrapping his arms around his torso, holding him tight and close so he doesn't go anywhere._

 

_His enlistment hangs over their heads like thick, dark clouds. Soon, too soon, he'll depart for Basic. God knows where that'll be, with most of the camps concentrated in the upper Northeast where they live. And after that, he'll be shipped off, and Steve doesn't know whether he'll ever see him again. It compels him to hold tighter, love stronger, and not for one second deny Bucky a single thing. Hence why they now stand in the middle of their living room, swaying along to a slow, silent tune._

 

_The moment, this moment, was not intending for him to choke up, but he does, like a lump of coal from his Christmas stocking shoving itself down his throat and lodging there, unable to move. A rattling exhale. He tries to breathe, but to no effect. He can't get air into his tightening lungs._

 

_Bucky is leaving. And what if—what if—_

 

_"Hey," Bucky says softly, nudging at Steve with his arm as they sway, who's trying not to start shaking in his embrace. "Breathe for me Stevie, listen to me. I've got you. I've always got you. Breathe with me, okay?"_

 

_Steve nods, and instead focuses on the steady beating of his best pal's heart and the evenness of his breaths, trying to match his to it. Bucky keeps him in his arms and slowly begins to hum an inaudible tune. He's always singing these days, whether he's busy working down at the docks, walking home from the shops a few blocks from their apartment, or lounging around the apartment and curling lazily up in the sun like a cat, practically purring as he sings along with the song in his head._

 

_Closing his eyes and feeling the vibrations in his chest against his skin is easy. It's all he ever needs, to feel him this close, in a blissful state of peace, and he wants him here forever, as selfish as that is. He's going off to fight in the war, so strong and brave, two things Steve could never be. And proud of him, he is. So beyond proud. But Bucky is his whole life, now that his Ma's gone. Bucky's all he has, all the family he has left. Is it really all that selfish to want him to stay?_

 

_He breathes easier as he listens, silent tears streaming down his face and dampening Bucky's ragged work t-shirt. He wants this. He wants all of it, for the rest of his life._

 

_The humming continues, even as the dull ache in his chest transforms into a throbbing pain that spreads to his fingertips. Reflexively, he clutches Bucky's shirt tighter, needing to be closer, needing to feel him, before he's gone, before the war takes his Bucky, everything he is and everything he's destined to be._

 

_Bucky halts their swaying and gently pushes Steve back, hands still delicately holding his waist. Reluctantly, Steve moves with his grip, dropping his arms from Bucky's torso and moving his hands up to his eyes, swiping his tears away. With a blink, he looks up to his best friend, who watches him with a grim set to his lips and a crease in his brow._

 

_"Can you tell me what's the matter, Stevie?" He asks._

 

_Like the coward he is, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, mouth trying to form words but stumbling over them. It moves like a rockslide, tumbling harshly down the mountain with a sickening crash against the ground. He wants the soft, happy moment to stay for a while longer; he wants to bask here in the light with his best friend and hold him while they dance to songs that aren't there. But he broke the moment with his shaking, his soft cries, and he curses himself for it._

 

_"I'm-I'm sorry," he apologizes, exhaling and opening his eyes to meet Bucky's. "I didn't mean to ruin it."_

 

_"You don't gotta apologize."_

 

_"You're leaving," Steve points out with a bitter laugh. "You're leaving soon, and—and-"_

 

_Bucky cuts him off harshly, reaching up to remove Steve's hands from his face so he can cup his cheeks, firmly but not roughly. "I'm coming back. I promise you, Stevie, I'm coming back for you. You got that? I don't plan on going anywhere."_

 

_"Then why?" His voice breaks, chin wobbling with fresh tears. "Why-why go, then?"_

 

_It's Bucky's turn to close his eyes, but only briefly, as if mustering up the courage to answer._

 

_"You lied on your enlistment forms," he states. "You'd have done damn near anything to be able to fight."_

 

_He quiets then. There's no disputing it. He'd done all he could, changing everything about himself on his forms to make himself look like the ideal soldier the Army is looking for. All he wants to be. But no matter what, no matter where he went, no medical examiner ever let him through. Over and over and over, he watched as his papers were stamped with a red '4F' upon them, rendering him unable to enlist to fight in the war._

 

_When Steve doesn't reply, Bucky continues. "Then you get it. Why I have to do this."_

 

_Steve nods, leaning into Bucky's hands. His head drops down to rest upon the crown of Steve's head, letting out a long exhale. They stand there for a long while, breathing each other in, living in this moment as if they're imprinting every little detail in their minds to savor later, so they never forget. What this feels like, who they both are in this moment. Just Steve and Bucky, not a sick half-cripple nor a U.S. Army soldier. Just Steve and Bucky. That's all they ever have to be with each other. All they ever need to be._

 

_Hesitant, he pulls back a little, until the brunet is forced to lift his head instead of resting it on his. When Steve meets his eyes, there's a question in them. It's now or never, he thinks. It's this, or it's nothing._

 

 _He refuses to let Bucky go without saying a proper goodbye, even if it kills him to do it. Even if Bucky rejects him. After all, it's 1942. Men aren't allowed to love other men. E_ v _en so, he can't deny what's in his heart, and what's always been there, lingering under the surface, thrumming with light and tenderness reserved specifically for Bucky._

 

_Licking his lips, mustering up the most amount of courage he can, he grips the front of Bucky's shirt and cranes his neck, reaching up to his tiptoes to press their noses together, their breaths a whisper against each other's lips. He stops, heart screaming for more, more, more. It's always more with him, it's never enough. It can never be enough._

 

_"You're my best pal," Steve breathes, aching._

 

_Bucky's lips twitch, brushing against his. "I-I—"_

 

_He hesitates._

 

_Then, he pulls back, stepping away from him, the boy who's given everything to him, including his heart. Bucky has always had his heart, whether or not he wants it. It's his, always. Steve knows it can never be anyone else's._

 

_Through Steve's momentary shock, he'd let Bucky's shirt slip through his slack fingers. When he comes to, his fingers close around empty air, and his body's turned cold. Like a crack in the ice, his chest breaks, slowly spiderwebbing and cracking until his body threatens to fall apart._

 

_He'd been rejected._

 

_He pushes back the screaming in his chest, and whispers, "okay. Okay."_

 

_"Steve." Bucky looks as if he's about to cry now, eyes glazing over with tears Steve hadn't realized were there. "You can't-we can't—this isn't goodbye. You realize that, right? Tell me you realize that."_

 

_Again, he closes his eyes, too cowardly to face it. "I know."_

 

_"Then save it," he croaks, "because I can't do this. When I come back—if I come back—I promise you, I'll kiss you everywhere, anywhere you want. But save it."_

 

_Bucky takes a step closer. "Open your eyes, Stevie, please. Look at me."_

 

_So he does, at Bucky's command, and disregards the humiliating wetness that forms glistening rings around his reddened eyes._

 

_"I guess you gotta come back then," Steve's voice cracks again, so close to shattering._

 

_"I will," Bucky promises, and then closes the distance between them once more._

 

The wind whistles through Steve's chest, blowing across the empty expanse that was once filled with Bucky Barnes, his best friend, the love of his life. The boy who had gone off to war that Steve followed, and when reunited with him, had discovered that he'd turned into a man in the months he'd been gone. Rugged, already exhausted from fighting a war he never should have been fighting in the first place, but with eyes that lit up when they landed on Steve, who'd unstrapped him from an exam table and stayed with him until they made it safely back to camp.

 

Steve had followed him miles behind enemy lines. They had gone from two invisible kids from Brooklyn to two soldiers that backpacked across the European continent, watching each other's backs, as well as the rest of their unit's, the Howling Commandos. Together, they brought down HYDRA base after HYDRA base, slicing the heads off the serpent one by one.

 

They had been so close. 

 

The war is almost over. It's 1945, and Bucky is dead.

 

A wet sob wracks through his body, ruining him. He hunches over the last standing table in one of the decimated cities in Austria, two-and-a-half empty bottles of bourbon sitting next to him, telling of his misery and sorrow. He hasn't stopped shaking since they'd arrived, all the Howlies scattering to take watch as they allow him to mourn here, where they'd been happily exchanging drinks less than a week ago. Most of the bar's been destroyed, and only this table and a partial piece of the bar itself stands, as if welcoming him here one last time despite its destruction.

 

They've both been decimated, all they had been blown and torn to pieces until there's barely anything left. This bar, a table and a few bottles of alcohol remain. But of Steve, only this body, so full of pain and suffering, remains.

 

Bucky had promised him that he would return home to Steve.

 

_When I come back—if I come back—I promise you, I'll kiss you everywhere, anywhere you want. But save it._

 

And he did. He'd saved it, held it close to him through Bucky's weeks at Basic training and recited it at night like a prayer.  _I promise, I'll save it. I'm saving it, just for you._

 

_Come home to me._

 

_Come home, Buck._

 

And now—and now, there is nothing to save it for. No reason to return home. Nothing to fight for. What war is worth fighting when all that you loved, all that you ever cared to fight for is gone? Fuck patriotism, fuck the  _it's the right thing to do_ bullshit, fuck  _it's them or us._

 

"Please," he cries into the last bottle of bourbon, taking a large swig though he's no longer being able to get drunk because of the serum. " _Please_."

 

From a quarter mile away, Dugan watches with sorrowful eyes. He'd never wanted this for any of them. They're all mourning, in their own way, but Steve's been hit the hardest. After all, they'd been best friends since they were just children, and all they'd ever really had was each other. For Bucky, it had always been Steve, despite his stories about the various dames he took out to dance halls and movie theaters. And for Steve, it had always been Bucky. Nobody else, just Bucky. 

 

He fears what it'll do to Steve, losing him, especially in the way he did. He'd been ordered not to go looking, and though Steve wants to with everything that remains of him, even he knows he can't. He has orders, and he still has his unit. They have a war to fight.

 

The war has changed them all, but Steve's just a kid. He doesn't deserve this. He's never deserved any of it. 

 

Silently, he prays that they all get to go home soon, and that Steve will find his again and heal from the near-fatal wound he's been struck.

 

In the bar, Steve cries for the next hour, dissolving into heart-wrenching screams that tear out of his body like even they are too big for him, even though he's no longer small or frail. After a while, the Howlies reconvene in the bar, and sit around Steve in a circle, sharing stories of the great Sergeant Bucky Barnes.

 

"To Barnes," Dugan murmurs quietly, raising his glass. Everyone's glasses follow, the last dregs of the bourbon poured in them. "The best damn Sarge, and one of the greatest men I've ever known."

 

Tears slip silently down Steve's face, marked with dried tears and puffy red eyes. 

 

"To Bucky," he says, just as quiet. The Howlies echo the words, and together, they share one last drink in Bucky's honor, the world quiet around them, as if it, too, is mourning the death of a great man, and a good soldier.

 

-

 

A week later, when Steve nosedives an enemy plane into the Arctic Ocean, it's not fear that he feels.

 

It's relief. It's hope, that he'll finally return home to Bucky, where he's always belonged.

 

He makes peace with it as he plunges under. 

 

-

 

The first thing he notices is the game, crackling over the radio.

 

_"And Stevens makes it to third base, third baseman Remmy right on his neck! Calvin goes for home—"_

 

It's familiar, but it's  _wrong_. Steve blinks the sleep from his eyes and sits up in the bed, a crease between his brows as he looks around the room. The soft sounds of traffic in the street below drift in through the window. The walls are a dull shade of green, the carpet a dull brown. The radio sits on a wooden dresser diagonal to him, playing a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball game. 

 

He knows it, had gone to this very game himself in 1941 with—

 

Steve swallows. Something is wrong. 

 

Before he can think of something to do, a woman enters, dressed in a long brown skirt and a white dress shirt, a brown tie around her neck. The woman's hair is the same shade as Peggy's, falling in the same curled rivulets, a coat of red lipstick on her lips. He stands up when she flashes him a polite smile, frowning.

 

"Mr. Rogers," she greets, "I'm glad to see you've awoken."

 

The crease between his brows deepens. Her accent is all wrong, thick but not native, as if she has to try at it. The furniture in the room smells too strong, too new. He doesn't even know where he's being held, much less why this woman is playing at someone as unique and headstrong as Peggy Carter. A strange scent clings to her clothes, something he's never smelled before. It puts him on edge.

 

"Where am I?" He asks.

 

There is the slightest falter to her red-painted smile, and then she says, "You're in a recovery room in New York City."

 

Tilting his head towards the radio, he listens.

 

_"Empirio is up to bat next. I have a feeling it's gonna be a good one folks. For those of you who don't know, Empirio is the home run champ of the season, he's got—"_

 

Bucky—Bucky had gone to get them both hot dogs. Steve's attention was so focused on the game that he didn't realize when he came back and tried to give him his hot dog, and it almost fell straight into his lap, along with a generous amount of ketchup, mustard, and relish. He looked away for a second or two to accept his hot dog with a quick thanks, but then joyous cheers broke out all around him, and he had missed Empirio's first home run of the game.

 

This isn't 1941. It doesn't feel like 1945, either.

 

Bucky is dead, fallen eight thousand feet off a train into a snowy ravine in the Alps. Only hours ago, it seems, Steve was driving a plane full of nuclear weapons into the Arctic Ocean, heading for what would surely be certain death. He couldn't have survived such a fall, much less swim through miles of freezing ocean to reach land and somehow make it back to... wherever  _this_ place is; whatever it is.

 

Steve takes one step, then another, towards the woman.

 

"I'm going to ask you again. Where am I?"

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Rogers."

 

"The game," he says, trying to contain the rising panic. He could be anywhere in the world right now, in anyone's custody. HYDRA's custody. "It's from May 1941. I was there, four years ago."

 

This time, the woman's smile truly does falter, no longer able to keep the calm facade of what might've supposed to have been a nurse in the 1940s. Whatever role she was meant to play, it's gone now, replaced by a nervous expression.

 

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Where am I?"

 

_"—And it's a home run for Empirio! Bases were loaded, no outs were called, bringing in four points for the Dodgers, in the lead by seven points—"_

 

"Captain Rogers," she starts.

 

An audible  _click_ is heard, and he looks down to where she holds a small remote of some sort with a flashing red light. 

 

"Who are you?" He demands.

 

The door behind her opens to reveal two men, clad in black gear he's never seen before. His mind roars  _HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA_. The first one reaches for him, to which he swats the arm away and delivers a solid punch to his jaw, sending him rearing back. The second one steps forward from behind him, this time unclipping a set of heavy metal cuffs from his belt. He doesn't manage to get them undone before Steve's on him, kicking him right in the sternum with as much force as he can manage. The man flies through the wall, ripping the door from its hinges. 

 

The woman stares at him, wide-eyed, fumbling for a radio hidden somewhere on her person. He takes one look at her and runs, barefoot, into a building he's never seen before. Men in suits surround him, stopping to look at the frantic man. He rears back in shock for a split second before turning and running down the massive hallway, bigger than any he's ever seen. Men in black enter his line of sight but don't hinder him as he plows through them, never stopping until he's flown down the stairs and through the entrance doors, opening up to the street.

 

The smell of gasoline hits him immediately, slamming into him like a brick wall, but he keeps moving, running with traffic. He's never seen these kinds of cars before, much less  _hundreds_ of them at one time. Huge, flashing signs and motion pictures are mounted onto every building within sight, advertising food, clothes, everything he could possibly imagine. He slows, pushing past pedestrians crossing the street.

 

Gradually, he stops, unable to keep going without being overwhelmed. The sheer size of the buildings is enough to stop him in his tracks. They extend dozens, hundreds of feet above his head, so tall he has to crane his neck upwards to see them all. So much noise surrounds him that it becomes deafening, and Steve's quickly getting lost in the noise, panic rising in his chest. Whatever this is, it has to be a nightmare. It can't possibly be anything else. He can't possibly—he—

 

Steve twists and turns, looking for  _something_ familiar, something to connect him home, bring him back. This place, however fast and loud and unfamiliar it is, seems vaguely familiar underneath the surface, like he's been here before, in a different time, a different  _world_.

 

More cars he doesn't recognize surround him, and a loud, steady voice cuts through the raging noise in his head and in his surroundings.

 

"At ease, soldier."

 

He turns to the voice, finding a man with dark skin and an eye patch over his left eye walking towards him, no fear in his stance. Only authority, as more men in black stand back, guns in hand.

 

"I apologize for the lack of a warm welcome," he says, "but I thought it'd be best if we broke it to you slowly."

 

"Break what?" He pants, not from exertion. Panic lingers, sticking around to make a friend out of him. 

 

The man stares at him with a grim set of his lips. For a moment, the noise around him grows faint, drowned out by the apprehension of his words. Something isn't right, and this man knows it, and he's going to tell him why the world is so off, why it's suddenly so  _wrong_ , if he's dreaming or he's dead or—

 

"You've been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years."

 

_Wrong._

 

_Seventy years, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

 

Asleep, for seventy years. Gone, while the world around him grows and changes and leaves him behind, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan who was going to save them all. Who had brought them to the brink of world destruction before plunging a plane into the Arctic and sacrificing himself for the rest of the world. 

 

Seventy years.

 

It seems like a lie. After all, how could it  _possibly_ be the truth? He should be dead, buried under wreckage miles deep in the ocean. If he was asleep for seventy years, he'd be damn-near a hundred years old, not  _this,_ not exactly what he looked like when he went down with the Valkyrie in 1945.

 

But—but.

 

Looking around him, he can't deny it. If he really is in New York, like the woman with red lips claimed, then this must be Times Square. Underneath the massive buildings and moving signs, if he took away the hundreds of modern cars and the wrong-scent of gasoline and something else, it  _is_ Times Square. Just seventy years in the future.

 

All those decades, gone. 

 

Seventy years since Bucky fell from the train. Seventy years since Steve mourned him in a decimated city, surrounded by the Howlies. And, oh  _god,_ the  _Howlies_ —

 

His entire body falls, not just his chest, and it's not just his heart that sinks, it's  _all_ of him. He thought he'd lost everything that day in the Alps, but the truth is, he hadn't. He had the Howlies, he had Peggy, he had a war to fight and a life to build afterward. He had Brooklyn and the Dodgers and a world that belonged to him. 

 

"Everything okay, Rogers?" the man with the eye patch asks.

 

He looks around him, face falling as he takes in his new surroundings once more, and gulps. "Yeah," he replies. "I just... had a date."

 

The year is 2011. He's alive. Bucky's been dead for seventy years, and everything he'd ever known is gone.


	2. like i ain't had enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "my heart ain't the beast that it once was  
> 'cause you can dig out the pieces i saved.  
> just give me enough to get high on  
> and let me remember the taste."

_"Bucky," he murmurs, guttural, as he stands before the man he's waited seventy years to find his way back to._

 

_Bucky's body erupts into a sob, stepping out of the cryostasis chamber to engulf Steve into his arms, cries wracking his body. He's bigger, now, and Bucky faintly remembers that he was, back before the fall, but it's different now. Since he woke from the ice, he's had time to fully grow into his new body, so much more confident and headstrong than he used to be. No longer is he the timid boy who tries to tuck himself into his body in attempts to make himself smaller, less noticeable._

 

_He's so much different, but no matter the body, Bucky holds on tight, gripping so tight to Steve's shirt that it starts to tear under his fingers. The knuckles on his right hand whiten, left arm whirring softly. Steve mimics Bucky's cries with his own, shaking with exhaustion and grief he thought would consume him._

 

_It's been a long seventy years. It's about time Bucky Barnes, previous Sergeant of the U.S. Army and ex-Hydra assassin, comes home._

 

_"Steve," Bucky croaks as he clutches his best friend tight, disbelieving._

 

_After the fall, he never thought he'd ever get something like this again, warm and soft and something that belongs to him, something he knows can never, ever be taken from him again. Neither he nor Steve would ever let it. He never thought he'd ever have the chance to come home again. And for a long time, he never even thought at all. Wake, kill, sleep, repeat. For fifty years, that was all he had._

 

_Shuri and Tony watch on from several feet away, quiet, not wanting to disrupt the reunion of the two men. They've been here in Wakanda for several months, trying to find a way to restore Bucky's memories in full, as well as dismantle any leftover triggers from HYDRA and seventy years' worth of brainwashing and torture. Together, they slowly pieced a broken, battered man back together while he slept in cryostasis._

 

_The process wasn't easy. It was a trying time for them all. The hard, weary months took a toll on all of them, but it hit Steve the most, to no one's surprise. Seeing him here, wrapped up in the person he'd been grieving since 1945--minus the years in the ice--is the most alive anyone's seen him yet. Holding Bucky opened something in him; a door that had forever been closed the day he watched his best friend die._

 

_To see the light that emits from that door, and to see the life that suddenly flows back into Steve like a roaring river breaking free of the dam that constrained it, is possibly the most beautiful thing Shuri and Tony have ever seen. Through war, and death, and hardship, to see this moment of such peace is the most welcome relief._

 

_Shuri wipes a stray tear from her eye. Tony softly clears his throat, careful not to disturb them. Though, he doesn't think anything could disturb them right now._

 

_Steve nearly hasn't left his side. He and Tony have barely glimpsed each other since the Accords, though Steve had sent that letter and burner phone to him soon after, if not to reconcile then to at least make amends. As much as he believes he did the right thing, he doesn't hate Tony for choosing what he did. He doesn't blame him for it, either. They all have their reasons for doing what they did._

 

_It doesn't matter, though, that they haven't spoken since Steve became the world's most wanted fugitive and fled to Wakanda with Bucky at his side. It doesn't matter that Tony can't even look at him without going out of his mind with rage, and then something more volatile, more unstable—such grief that pours out of him, akin to Steve's but unleashed, instead of being held inside like an ancient river system underneath a mountain. Tony doesn't care who sees him break—Steve cares all too much, too obsessed with the patriotic image of Captain America, who shows no weakness._

 

_He's been here, for months on end, working nearly nonstop to find a solution that won't cause Bucky any further harm. Despite discovering Bucky's the one who killed his parents and Steve lying to him about knowing, he's only tried to help to the best of his abilities. Through everything, Tony came to Wakanda of his own free will and helped rebuild his best friend from the ground up._

 

_That, Steve can never be thankful enough for._

 

_He breathes Bucky in, even if it's not a particularly good smell. Underneath the cool, antiseptic scent is the raw, unclean scent of him that hints at the months he went without a shower. He doesn't care, because it's Bucky, who he thought had died, who he'd mourned, who he'd lived for despite wanting to die every second of every day he had to live without him. Not just his best friend, but more._

 

_All Bucky Barnes had ever been was Steve Rogers' best friend--but Bucky and Steve, they were more. They've always been more. America's most well-kept secret, unleashed here, in one of Shuri's labs in Wakanda, never to be written into history books. This is just theirs, to share with the people they care for._

 

This isn't goodbye,  _he'd said once before the war. It hadn't felt like it. When he realized it was, it'd torn him open from the inside out and no amount of mourning could ever fix the gaping hole he'd left behind. But standing here, holding on to Bucky like a lifeline, listening to the slightly increased beating of his heart and the shakiness of his breaths, he knows Bucky had meant it. It was never goodbye._

 

_Through the years, he'd held on to this one moment, this one promise given in the quiet privacy of their living room on a sunny day as they danced, two souls twined together as one._

 

When I come back—if I come back—I promise you, I'll kiss you everywhere, anywhere you want,  _he'd said. He wonders if Bucky truly meant it, though he knows he did. If nothing else, Bucky has always been honest._

 

_Steve closes his eyes, inhales against the exposed skin of Bucky's neck one last time, and pulls away, body aching at the immediate loss of contact. Bucky's arms fall from their place around Steve but remain at his sides, warm and comforting, grounding him in the moment. In this, forever._

 

_His fingers curl in the long strands of hair that drape halfway down Bucky's neck, shorn before he went into cryosleep. When his eyes open, Bucky stares at him, open affection upon his face. Steve feels his cheeks heat up underneath his eyes._

 

_"Before you shipped off to Basic," He whispers, well aware of the eyes that remain on them. "I believe you made me a promise."_

 

_Bucky quirks a curious eyebrow. "I did?" He asks, both sweet and teasing. Steve nudges at his shoulder with an elbow, and the smirk playing at his lips slowly dissipates, leaving only the serenity of Steve's hands on him, and the ache of being apart from him for far longer than he'd ever had him._

 

_The first time Steve truly saw Bucky again was on a bridge in Washington D.C., clad in thick black tac gear and donning a metal arm, coming at him in close range with a knife. He hadn't even recognized him until he was sent backward and the mask came flying off. When he was up on his feet again, he looked to Steve, and Steve's entire world had stopped, tipping over on its axis._

 

_Bucky was a ghost. The Winter Soldier was a ghost story._

 

_He let him slip away that day, too paralyzed by the sight of cold, soulless blue eyes that once held such life, such joy. The same person who had taken care of him throughout his later childhood, and even more so after his Ma died, was the one trying to kill him, working for the same organization he thought he'd put a stop to in 1945, had given his life for._

 

_His eyes are so different now than they were on the bridge that day. He looks so much more like the man he used to be, and although he's never going to be that same man—with the decades of torture and memory wipes and cold-blooded murder—he's more vibrant, less terrified of what lives—lived—in his head. Now that the danger is gone, the tenseness in his shoulders has eased, and his smile comes easier._

 

_Those same eyes that had looked at him with such violent cold now look upon him with awe, and love, and something that feels like a warm summer day under the shade of an oak tree. Like peace._

 

_"I'm..." he struggles, searching Bucky's eyes for something, anything to say. He has so much to tell him, and he feels like forever isn't enough time in the world for them. They only have here, now. But Bucky softly shushes Steve and rests his forehead against his._

 

_"I know," he swallows, words coming out slightly strangled. "I know, Steve."_

 

_Steve inhales, and then nudges his nose against Bucky's, the brush of their mouths sending a sharp spike of want straight up his spine, and he curls further into him in response. Despite Bucky's promise to him, it's a question, anyway._

 

Do you still want this?  _The silent question hovers between them._ Do you still want  _me?_

 

 _Then, Bucky's pushing into Steve's space, tightening his hold, and pressing his lips to Steve's. He hears Bucky's breath hitch, feels the inhalation against his skin, and nearly crumbles underneath his grip, kissing him with an eagerness he's never known before until their teeth clack awkwardly together and he has to pull back slightly_. 

 

_It's slow, and sweet, no matter how badly Steve wants, and it's a beautiful thing, to want. For once, he lets himself want this like he's never wanted anything in his life, holding onto Bucky as if he's going to disappear the moment he lets go._

 

_I want you, he thinks. All I've ever wanted is you._

 

_When they finally pull apart, Steve takes a few breaths and then kisses him again, brief but more urgent because it's not enough. He doesn't want to be done, but there are people in the room that are waiting to run a few more tests on Bucky before they'll let him go. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of this, being able to touch Bucky in all the ways he's dreamed of. Being loved by him the way he's dreamed of._

 

_They part once more, and Bucky huffs in amusement against Steve, disentangling himself from his embrace enough to look him in the eyes._

 

_"Slow down there, Stevie," he says low enough for only him to hear, "we've still got an audience."_

 

_"I know," Steve replies, smiling at him a little lopsidedly. "Tests are probably gonna take a few hours, though. Thought I'd give you some motivation to get through it 'cause I know you'd become a brat within the first twenty minutes if I didn't."_

 

_Bucky throws his head back and laughs, startling Steve a little. His eyes crinkle, joy lighting up his face. He gets a sudden urge to paint the image, but he knows it'll never be just right, so he instantly throws away the idea. It's nice, though, even if Bucky's touch vacates Steve's body just a few seconds later, and he leaves the three of them to it with a blush and an embarrassed duck of his head as he slips out the door._

 

Steve's been fighting a war since the 1940s, when he took Erskine's offer and was injected with the serum, successfully creating the world's first supersoldier. He knows what peace feels like; has felt it on several occasions, but briefly, never lasting very long. That's the finicky thing, being who he is. Captain America never gets a break. There are lives to save, battles to fight, and wars to win. Peace doesn't have a permanent place in life, only fleeting moments that end way too soon.

 

The hardest war he's ever had to fight hasn't been World War II, or the resurgence of Hydra, or half the worlds' government, or Thanos. In the grand scheme of things, Thanos was just another villain hungry for power, with a skewed sense of justice that he placed upon the universe he'd destroyed half of. Well—destroyed wasn't the right word. There was no destruction to be meted. One minute the universe lived on as it always has, unaware of the dark storm that loomed over them, fast-approaching, extending to the farthest reaches of the universe. The next minute, half of it... simply vanished. Gone. As if it had never been there at all.

 

The Avengers, the Guardians, Wakanda—all those who had fought in the war against Thanos believed they had lost. After all, they had lost their friends, their family, their  _king_. What else was there to be done, except for digging empty graves and saying goodbye to those lost in the fight, whether they were killed on the battlefield or had vanished into the air like words in the wind.

 

As it turns out, there was more to be done. Thanos was still out there, so the war wasn't over. It was never over. Steve's only choice was to keep fighting, if not for himself then for those who couldn't or had already lost the fight. Captain America is more than just a symbol of patriotism and justice; Captain America represents honor, loyalty, the courage to stand up to bullies and enemies even if they've already knocked you down. Captain America gives strength to those who have none left, even if he has to give up his own to do it. 

 

So they worked, and they fought. They lost the battle, but eventually, they won the war. 

 

And now here Steve stands, at the empty grave of Bucky Barnes—not just his best friend, but the love of his damned life. They had all lost someone in the war, it was inevitable. They won, and the universe was safe again, but they'd never found a way to repair the devastating effects Thanos had caused in the initial fight. 

 

It certainly wasn't for lack of trying. Shuri, Tony, and Bruce worked for months on end with the greatest minds in the world to find a solution—"anything," Shuri once told him, firm and with a fire he himself once had, "is better than nothing at all, Captain"—but everything fades with time. Hope, most of all.

 

Slowly, they lost hope. Everything they tried didn't work, and those who waited for their loved ones to return home to them began to grieve. He began to grieve.

 

It's been three months since the world gave up on Project Resurrection. Two and a half months ago, Steve started making trips to Arlington Cemetery, where Bucky's empty grave still sits among the fallen soldiers of World War II. In hindsight, it doesn't make much sense to visit. There's nothing left of Bucky—no body, no trace. This grave site should mean nothing to him. Yet—

 

Yet.

 

He's been visiting Bucky's grave almost every day for two and a half months, and it hasn't gotten any easier.

 

His chest constricts upon the first glimpse of the headstone, though it doesn't stand out from any other gravestone within a two-mile radius. The breath is knocked out of him, the wound that Bucky left upon him gaping open like a ravine, deep and seemingly never-ending. It began as a pit in the center of his stomach, making him sick when he thought back on it, but there had still been hope then. What he felt, it wasn't grief, not yet. Then, it was desperation. Then, it was guilt and anger and  _determination_. Now, the pain has stretched from limb to limb like a new layer of skin that's been attached so thoroughly to his body that he doesn't know how to distinguish the pain from himself. Doesn't remember.

 

As he approaches the grave, his chin wobbles, tears already burning his eyes. He blinks through them, trying to steady himself, but his voice betrays him, quivering as he says, "Hey, Buck. It's–it's me again, Steve."

 

The wind picks up, rustling his hair and drying the tears that wait in his eyes, the only telltale sign of his hurt. He stops and lets it wipe away the evidence, pretending that it's Bucky standing in front of him, wiping away his tears with his thumbs.

 

 _Why you cryin', Stevie?_ The wind/Bucky asks.  _M'right here._

 

"I know you are," he replies, "I just... I just wanna feel you."

 

His throat clogs, sticky with slime as he tries to swallow it down, but to no avail. If he closes his eyes, maybe he could imagine Bucky's hands on his waist, the place they've always belonged. He can run to him, throw himself around him, fold into him until there's nothing left of Steve but Bucky. That's all he is, truly, all he's ever been—through the years, the only thing Steve's ever been is Bucky. 

 

Who is he? After Bucky? When there's nothing left of the man he loved, what remains of  _Steve?_

 

Is there anything left at all?

 

He shivers, the chill of the December air cool against his warm skin. The cold doesn't bother him. Today is December 24th—Christmas Eve. He'd visit tomorrow, spend Christmas with his best pal, maybe grab lunch, sit around, talk, but he promised Nat he'd spend Christmas with the team at the compound. They're all probably there now, sitting around one of Tony's simulated fires he tries to make as real as possible without it actually being  _fire_ , as to "not destroy the expensive interior in this very fine establishment, thank you very much, because I am  _not_ some sort of  _barbarian_..."

 

It's not to say that he doesn't want to be with them. He does. They're the only remaining sort-of family he has, no matter how dysfunctional they are. He just... he has to do this first. 

 

"I brought you flowers," he says through the building sob, voice like granite as he attempts a little humor. Steve clutches the white flowers delicately in his hand, not wanting to tear them. They have to be perfect, otherwise they'll be ruined and it won't be funny anymore. "They're forget-me-nots, you see that? I, uh, thought it'd be funny, you know, since you were the one who forgot me. Well you didn't, really, I guess, but that's–that's not the point. Um. I'm kinda realizing it's not actually that funny."

 

He breathes in, and it comes out shaky and uneven. "I—I'll never forget you, Buck. I promise. The world... they gave up on you. On all of you. Sam and Wanda and T'Challa and Peter and... I won't. I won't forget you, and I'm not just gonna accept that they've given up. I've been researching, looking for something that will bring you back. Bring you all back. It hasn't, uh, gotten me anywhere yet. But I'm lookin', Buck. Got a new lead, his name's Hank Pym. He... he's gone, too."

 

Clearing his throat, he trails off into silence, staring at Bucky's headstone. Then, he slumps to his knees, the forget-me-nots—ironically—forgotten in the grass, a fresh bout of grief washing over him, weakening his bones. His heart is not what it once was. He can't support his own body, not anymore.

 

_James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes_

_1917-1945_

_Best friend, brother, and son_

 

"I—" his voice is barely a whisper against the wind, breaking and restructuring and breaking again—"I got somethin' to ask you, Buck."

 

_Steve?_

 

Steve's breathing stutters, mind flashing back to that day in Wakanda. He can't do it. He can't, he can't, he  _can't_. But the voice isn't the same, it's not real like it was. It exists purely in his head, where there are no bad things to fear, no bad things that can harm either of them. 

 

"It's okay," he says. "It's nothing bad, I promise. Well—to me it's not."

 

He takes a moment to steady himself. The morning dew that still clings to the grass soaks through his jeans, and his hair's gotten into his face from all the wind. For a while, he'd stopped cutting it. Now it falls a little past his ears, and Nat trims it for him every once in a while. He doesn't even have to ask anymore, she's gotten used to his signs that tell when he's trying to ask for something but can't physically bring himself to. 

 

His heart—it's not what it once was; the roaring beast whose own defiance and pride fueled his fragile body. Like a lion who's courage was taken from him, he's withered away, a shell of who he once was. There are shards of glass embedded so deep in his heart that he doesn't even know they're there until a particular memory hits just the right place, and the pain is as real as this, this reality; as real as Bucky is gone. With every pulse, his heart drips with blood that pools at the bottom of his ribcage, filling up until it reaches his throat and he drowns with it, in it, because of it. 

 

He can't do this. But he has to.

 

Fumbling with something in his coat pocket, he tries to find his words again. 

 

"For a long time," Steve starts, lips parted as he trails off, unsure. "For a long time, I was just an angry kid who wanted to be anyone else. I was constantly underestimated because of how scrawny and small I was. Nobody ever really saw me, they just saw some sick little kid and gave me pity or a good black eye or two. My ma, she tried her best, but the best wasn't what I wanted. I–I wanted to be different. I blamed my ma for that. Didn't see any point to being alive if I was so sick all the time I was practically dead. And... and for a while I did want to. Be..."

 

He clears his throat. "Anyway, I uh, I met you, of course, and you were... you were so  _Bucky_. I don't really know how to explain it. You sent a couple'a kids who were pushing me around running for the hills with their tails between their legs. It was a kindness I'd never known before, you know, and it took me a while to realize you weren't doing it out of pity. It was just who you were. Kind, even when I screamed in your face 'til my face turned red and I couldn't breathe.

 

"It was us against the world, you know—that's stupid, of course you know," he corrects, a small, fond smile relieving the grief ever-present on his face. "Every time I'd do something reckless, or I was angry, you'd pull me back, remind me that it wasn't worth it. The  _anger_ wasn't worth it. And I remember looking back at you and thinking  _you're worth it_. You're worth everything to me, Buck. You're the only one who never wanted me to be anyone else, and I never wanted to _be_ anyone else with you. You're—"

 

Steve breaks off, choking on a sob. He leans his forehead against the cool stone of Bucky's grave, fresh tears wetting his cheeks. He doesn't bother wiping them away, raising a hand to brush his fingers over his dead lover's name.  _James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes._ Over and over, he feels the grooves where the letters of his name are carved, as if he can imprint them into his brain and say it enough times that, by some miracle, Bucky will return to him.

 

"You're it for me," he croaks, shoulders shaking. 

 

Sniffling, his fingers close around the object in his coat pocket and pull it out from where it was safely hidden from prying eyes. A ridiculous thought. There's no one to watch him here. The world has left these soldiers behind.

 

The object is a navy, velvet box that looks too small for his large palm. Pulling back from the headstone, he sits back, resting his weight on the balls of his feet rather than his knees. Inside the box lays a simple gold band, a small diamond embedded in the middle. It feels wrong to expose it to the world like this, where nobody but Steve can see it. This ring was meant for Bucky, and he's not even here to see it.

 

"Um, I wanted it to match your new arm," he admits quietly.

 

 _You're such a sap, Stevie,_ not-Bucky grins. At that, he manages an amused huff, though he'd imagined it as more of a chuckle.

 

One last time, his fingers trace the name.

 

"I didn't wanna ask you like this," Steve says. "I thought of a hundred different ways to do it, too. Even traded some ideas with Shuri. She thought they were a little sappy, but, well, you know me. M'a sap at heart. Thought maybe I'd take you somewhere new, like... I dunno,  _Paris_ or somethin', and I'd propose to you over dinner for everyone to see, hiding the ring in your food, or maybe the champagne. Shuri thought it was too much, and you'd probably choke on it.

 

"Then I looked it up and, uh, apparently that's not how you should propose. I wanted it to be perfect, Buck. Started planning it out and everything, but then..."

 

 _Then the end of the world came?_ Not-Bucky jokes. 

 

He purses his lips, breathes through the hurt.

 

"I'm gonna marry you one day, Buck," he proclaims softly, picking up the forget-me-nots and settling them as nicely as he can at the bottom of the headstone. "You made me a promise once and made good on it. I plan to do the same."

 

As the wind whistles through his ears, Steve presses two fingers to his lips and touches them to the top of Bucky's headstone. His tears have dried on his cheeks but remain on the verge of tipping over again, a reminder that it hasn't stopped hurting. It may never stop hurting. Perhaps he'll have to live with this hurt the rest of his life, but it's worth it.  _Bucky's_ worth it. 

 

He closes his eyes, feels the ghost of not-Bucky take the ring from the box, slipping it on his metal finger. The grooves on the inside of the band hold it in place, preventing it from slipping off unless he wills it so. It's there, forever, binding their souls together.

 

_It's beautiful, Steve._

 

 _I'm gonna marry the hell out of you,_ not-Bucky adds.

 

Steve feels good enough to smile. "Not if I marry the hell out of you first, pal."

 

When he opens his eyes again, the wind has calmed to a lazy breeze and the golden ring sits in its box, right where he left it. His side is empty, and Bucky is gone. 

 

It's been over two years since the fight in Wakanda. Two years since Bucky turned to nothing but ash, floating away on a phantom wind.

 

His lip quivers. 

 

"Merry Christmas, Buck," he whispers, closing the velvet box and returning it to its space in his pocket. 


End file.
